this week in history

This week is full of anniversaries, ghosts and memories.

Twenty-four years ago today, I had my first date with Wasband.  That was, of course, a good thing . . . back then.  Today, that memory kind of sticks in my throat.  It sticks like a sickly, overly sweet cookie bar . . . the kind that gags you with sweetness.  The one that you know is going to sit in your stomach and you're really going to wish you hadn't eaten it.

Historical House

Twelve months ago today I called a lawyer and said, "It's time.  We'll file after the first of the year."  I did not realize the coincidence in dates until just now.

From there on, the anniversaries of this week will get worse . . . all from last year.  The day Wasband raged in the basement calling me a "f'ing bitch," loud enough that the children could hear.  The day Eldest was hospitalized with a seven-day migraine, that day Wasband accidentally discovered I wanted a divorce.  (I have a feeling I will write out that story later this week.)  The day Wasband stood outside the guest bedroom door (and also Eldest's bedroom door) and said things no father should ever say.  This coming Friday will be one-year since the day Wasband packed his things and tried to leave without being discovered.  He tried to move out without sitting down with me and telling the girls we were splitting.  Instead, Eldest discovered him rummaging in the liquor cabinet, suitcase next to him, guilty look on his face.

Future house

So this week in history, is not the best week of my personal history.  Nonetheless, I am happy this year.  I am in a good place.  I have discovered love again (and yes, that is another post, isn't it?)  I feel like celebrating the holiday season this year.  And I haven't felt like celebrating since about 2007 . . . maybe 2006.

While the history of this week may not be full of warm fuzzies, the present is good and I'm sure the future will be even better.

if anyone has ever wondered why. . . here . . . now you know.

Subtitled:  The depths to which some people will plummet before they realize they are responsible for their own grown-up-selves . . . their own incredibly stupid actions . . . 

may never cease to amaze me.

Over the Thanksgiving break Wasband took the girls out to his family's ranch for the holiday.  This is about an eleven-hour drive.  Approximately seven hours and at least one meal break into the drive (which began at around 10 a.m. on Wednesday, if anyone cares to do the blood alcohol calculations), Wasband was arrested for drunk driving.  

As I was, at the time that this particular asshatery occurred, some 20,000 miles in the air somewhere over Ohio, my girls acted with incredible maturity in solving the problem before them.  Eldest got the highway patrol to sign the truck over to her since she was 18, they called their grandparents who rented a hotel room for them in the nearest town, they used my credit card to buy themselves a yummy supper at Denny's, and waited for my plane to land so they could let me know where they were.

You know, stunningly, I keep hoping that Wasband will wake up and smell the vodka.  He is killing himself . . . or at least permanently pickling his liver . . . and destroying his relationship with his daughters in the offing.  

Drunk tank photo from here

He can now kiss driving his daughters anywhere good-bye.  He has destroyed the last bit of trust I had in him, he ruined the remaining shred of belief I had that he would act in the best interest of the children he helped bring into this world.  But I WILL NOT allow him to take them out of the world alongside his sorry ass.  

His story--the one he shared with his children--is that he got completely wasted the night before and this was just residual alcohol in his system.  (Yup.  Chew on that a bit, "Hey kids!  Guess what?  I got totally wasted last night!"  Isn't that a line you use with your kids everyday?  *facepalm*)  Oh, and the reason he stopped mid-trip and vomited is that his "medicine" makes him sick.  Will everyone that believes this story raise their hands?  Hmm.  Why isn't anyone raising their hands?  Do you dare believe he's not telling the truth?  Even IF he hadn't had anything to drink since, let's just say 3 a.m. the night before, for the alcohol to still be in his system at 6 p.m. means he had to have had at least 15 units--a/k/a 15 beers or glasses of wine or shots of hard liquor--in his system at 3 a.m. (the body processes about 1 unit of alcohol an hour).  Nice.

But the best bit of it is that instead of bailing him out on Wednesday night, the girls let him sit in jail overnight.  They got the joy of bailing their father out of jail on Thanksgiving morning and then driving him to his parents' farm.  I have no idea what his parents said to him as they had the good sense to keep that scene away from the girls, but I seriously hope he is sporting a new asshole.

As Younger told me the story, her father called her Wednesday evening and asked her to come bail him out.  She told him "no", that he could just stay where he was.  He said something like, "You're overreacting."  She responded with something like, "That's fine, I can just sit here and overreact.  And you can sit there in jail and under-react."  

Can I have a round of applause for what might be the finest kid-parenting-her-parent-line ever?

He apparently hung up on her but called again later that evening, reticent, as he discovered he'd left his debit card at home (it was probably with his current registration papers for the truck, which he apparently also did not have with him).  As he had the choice of rotting in jail over the Thanksgiving holiday or being nice, he needed his kids to get him out of jail.  They agreed to . . . in the morning.

They also passed on to me that his booking picture is on-line and he was in jail with real criminals.  Again . . . nice.  I was very tempted to link that picture here so you all could see a picture of pathetic, but I decided I wouldn't.  (Be grateful for that, Wasband, since I know you're reading this.)

So this Thanksgiving I got to be thankful that Wasband didn't injure or kill my kids with his self-indulgent idiocy.  I got to be thankful that I no longer have to live this situation in my home.  And I also got to be thankful for the many, many friends who have gotten me through this past year as I worked my way into freedom from the Drunk House.

P.S.  I won't be taking this rant down.  You deserve public shame on this one.

that hollow feeling

To all that saw my rant . . . it was intended for specific eyes . . . those eyes saw it.  Now it is gone.  In the meantime. . .

hope leads me astray

Wow. I have just been accosted by a crazy. A crazy neighbor.

I think she was drunk.

It's all Hope's fault. Hope begged me to go outside and meet the dog in the backyard. This is the last time I give in to Hope's wiles.

Oy.

She...the neighbor, not Hope...started normally enough talking about how Hope and her dog could be new best friends.

Hall of Justice (a/k/a justice's house)

I thought, "Whatever. Do dogs have 'best dog friends'?" Cuz I'm pretty sure I'm Hope's best friend. Anyhow, I digress.

And then she...again, the neighbor, not Hope...attacked. What kind of a lawyer am I? Answering with commercial defense, mostly for banks was the wrong answer.

I was informed--in no particular order--that:

1. I am friends with Lucifer. All defense attorneys are. I am to tell my defense attorney friends that we should enjoy our time in hell.

2. She can't get a job because her former employers have tried to kill her too many times.

3. Employers use their health insurance companies to knock off their employees. She even provided me the name of the insurance company who does this.

4. She's waiting for the ERISA and SEC laws to change.  (Good luck with that.)

5. She's stuck in hell (a/k/a Kansas) where: there are no mountains or oceans and you just work or wait to die. And also, she's here because she was born here. That's why they made her come back. (I have no clue who "they" are.) Also, her kids have no chance. This last point was her opinion; not mine. I suspect that if I were to agree with her--which I might--our reasoning is likely to be slightly different.

6. She has brought a lawsuit about fraud, fraud, fraud. Securities fraud and bank fraud were mentioned. And then so was the EEOC, who, of course, would only have oversight of employment cases. But I didn't feel like arguing with her. Sometimes the point of my argument might be really solid, but I'm also pretty swift about realizing what is futile.

7. Oh. And her lawyers? They have all been bought off. They are whores. Plaintiffs lawyers are whores and defense lawyers are friends of Lucifer.  I'm supposed to enjoy my money.

8. But? She suggested I should change sides and get in the business of justice. I shouldn't leave people like her to just wait for the Department of Justice to help her out.

Um, let's see if I got that right...she's waiting for justice from the Department of Justice on her lawsuit? She said it like they were the Justice League...of Superman fame. I suspect she's going to have to wait a very long time.

Mostly, she made me sad...because she's not okay. And there are at least two kids living in her house. Well...and she made me a wee bit scared too.  I'm not used to people attacking me.  Generally, I'm a pretty nice person....I mean nice considering I'm a friend of Lucifer and all.

For the record, Hope is not going to friends with that dog.

But...please remind me to change health insurers. Just in case.

P.S.  As she and her dog wandered off...I genuinely wished her a good evening...because, man, I think she could use one.

conversations from the borderline

Wow.  Eldest is back at it.  We're in unstable territory . . . the land of tornados . . . roller coasters . . . and generally a lot of stuff that does not make sense.  I'm not 100% sure, but this one seems to be borderline related, not bipolar.  There is a lot of attempt at drama and illness.  And there is some truth mixed in with the mess (she has a cold, she hurt her finger, an acquaintance had open heart surgery yesterday), but the drama sucks.  If she would just take the damn meds we wouldn't have to live like this.

I was supposed to take her to the doctor today because her car is in the shop.  But she can't find her purse, so now she won't go.  And, no, I'm not allowed to help her find her purse.  Why?  I have no clue.


So we've resorted to electronic communication inside the same house:

Me:  If you change your mind, I'll be here for a bit.

Eldest:  There's no point.  my purse is gone.  I'll just have to deal with it. Just go to work.  I can't deal with this and I just.  Whatever.  It's not like it's important anyways.

Me:  I am here for a bit and I'm not going to respond to the rest.  And Eldest . . . I'm really, really sorry about Nacho [the guy who had surgery].

Eldest:  I'm sorry mom.  Have a good day at work.

Me:  I'm sorry you're miserable.  I know I can't but if I could, I would fix it.

Eldest:  I just can't deal with any of this right now.  It's not even me being irrational.  I know if the doctor said anything bad about my hand I'd just break down.  And I know something is wrong with it, because I can barely move my whole hand [as I type this, I am watching her remove a rubber-banded-in bow from the dogs ears...she is moving her hand with great dexterity and strength].  But I just can't handle going to the doctor.  Just like everything else.

Me: [not responding]

Eldest: I'll just have to see a doctor some other time or likely just not see one.  I'm sorry you had to deal with this.

Me:  I love you.

Eldest: I'm sorry.

[Two minutes pass as I make tea.]

Eldest:  I won't ask you to take care of this again.  I'll get dad or someone to [she lectured me this morning on how her dad will never believe she's sick and help her--and the truth is, while he's not my favorite person right now, he would help her if she was injured].  I feel too bad about today to ask your help again.  I need to go because I can't stop crying and it hurts to text.

Me:  Eldest, I'm here for you and you haven't inconvenienced me.  I'll leave for work soon and be there in just fine time.  Think about borrowing the car Thursday afternoon if you feel more stable then.

Eldest:  I won't be able to drive.  There's no way.  Even if my anxiety didn't exist my hand would make if impossible.!  And I can't ask your help either.  I just have to deal.

Then she came downstairs and snuggled the dog.  


She stood up and I asked her to hand me something.

She announced she's in a really, really bad mood and can't help me out.  But she handed me the item, and then the flip switched again.  She screamed, "I was in a good mood and now I'm in a really bad mood . . . and I just can't . . ."  And ran off upstairs, slamming doors and knocking down things.  

Photo from here.

I'm just left here, shaking my head.  Knowing there is nothing I can do that can quell the storm in her heart and her mind.  


What I said above is true, "I know I can't, but if I could, I would fix it."  Sure, I'd fix the little things that are bothering her today.  But mostly, I just wish I could fix this thing that takes away my darling daughter. Today you get a house from the borderline . . . 
   

out, damned spot

If, one day, you should find yourself in your former home cleaning up your ex's blood...well, trust me, you're gonna go all thinky.

First, let me set something straight. No, I did not kill him. *insert wry smile* He's taking care of that day-by-day all by his big self. Killing his liver slowly.

The story Wasband tells me is different than what the evidence would indicate (yes...damn lawyers...we examine this stuff). However, the short and sweet of it is that last Friday or Saturday he fell down stairs, splitting open his forehead with a 4-5 inch gash through hi

s left eyebrow and shattering his right wrist. He was alone when this happened and lost consciousness. I'm not sure how long he was out. I assume alcohol played a role...I wouldn't have thought so because of the hour but because he's lied about how it happened, I figure drink tripped him up. He was out long enough they were worried about a brain bleed at the hospital and made him alert his family (which he decided was him daughters...he didn't bother to call his parents or sisters).

After he regained consciousness, he walked up the stairs to the master bath and dripped blood the whole way. This would be...of course...across light carpeting. We close on the sale of the house next week and I'm thinking they wouldn't be happy with blood crusted carpeting.

So yesterday, while my parents helped with the final packing of my things over at the house, I got down on my hands and knees to scrub up yet another of his messes. (Yes, I probably sound bitter, but believe me there is reason.)

It's hard for me to be in the house. There are plenty of good memories...mostly memories that revolve around sweet moments with my girls...but the end was startling and eye-opening...a carousel ride of monsters. That old fear knots my stomach when I am there. I am exhausted when I leave just from the strain of holding myself together.

But unlike Lady M., when I was uttering "out, damned spot," there was no guilt. No blood on my hands. It is more like I want this dark spot in my history gone. I know I will never be unconnected from him...the girls will always connect us...although he seems to continue doing an excellent job of making sure that connection will be tenuous, at best. Regardless of how badly I want that spot of history gone...it won't be.

But I also reflected on the dark shadow he cast on me...that cancerous spot on my soul...the one that was leeching the life out of me. It feels better. I am healing. So as I washed out that blood, it wasn't just getting rid of a damned spot...it was also a bit of ...

I'm going to wash that man right out of my hair.

Except I already have. So I might need to rewrite the lyrics.

The fact is...life is turning in a way that is darn good right now. Despite lots of difficulties, I'm happy. I love my new place. I love this life. A spot is really nothing but a drop. A small mess. And I cleaned up that mess. I've cleaned up earlier ones and I'm sure I'll

clean up future messes. But I can do that. It's not going to bog me down in regret or even anger. I'm just going to do what I need to do and keep moving in the direction of where I want to be.

I give you a South Pacific house. (Any musical theater geeks out there? Huh, Kell?)

truly surreal

My Grammy--who would be 100 this November--was just put back on Hospice services.

Yes, BACK on Hospice services.

She was put on Hospice about two years ago and outlived it. But she's stopped eating and is sleeping a lot, so this might be it. I'm not so sure. She is ONE TOUGH COOKIE. I'm fairly sure her ticker was supplied by the Energizer Bunny.

While this will make me sad, she has been a shell of a human for a LONG time. She is what we all fear most. She has advanced Alzheimer's. She hasn't known me for years...but when I say, "Grammy, it's Laggin!" She says, "I have a granddaughter named Laggin." At least she remembers me....

This has been a nightmare for my mom, who is an only child. She thinks Mom is her own mother. She tells us her brothers visit her. (The last one died when I was about 11.) It's a little disconcerting but I have always tried to find humor in it or be glad that they visit! It's just too sad to take seriously.

I always wonder if Mom will be a happier person when Gram is gone. Gram has been a huge emotional drag on Mom. When Poppy died--in 1968--Gram began to depend on Mom for everything but money. She moved to the town we lived in "to get old and die" in 1974. I was 8. In other words, for 35 years my mom has been caring for her own mom. She smartly never let Gram move in with them; although Gram certainly tried. Whenever I am totally frustrated with Mom, I remember that when she was my age, she had been caring for her own mother for nine years.

That makes me want to jump off a bridge. It would turn me into a major grump too.

Truly, it's been time for Gram to leave since about 2003 or 2004.

But still.

Now?

and again...

I am completely distracted from everything ... again.

Yesterday I received word that one of my dearest friends is now losing HIS battle.

I will write about Dave when it will not cause me to sob uncontrollably. That is not today. But five years and 20-some days after they discovered the monster growing on his brain, they are stopping treatment and moving him to hospice services.

I spent part of yesterday afternoon at the hospital with Dave, his wonderful wife and one of their daughters (the one who was our nanny a few summers ago). We laughed and chatted and tried to be normal.

But today, I am so very, very sad.

the stuff taking up my brain space, vol. II

As I said, part of the space in my brain has been taken up with dying and funerals. Five deaths in six weeks...I only made four of the funerals.

Some of it has been in the natural course...my great-uncle who made homemade ice cream on his 89th birthday and died 48 hours later...my friend's 90 year old father, who had advanced Alzheimer's...my other friend's 81 year old father who was diagnosed with cancer after it was already metastasized and lived just a few weeks.

Some of it has left me really, really raw.

Peg...the 48 year-old mother of two boys just 13 and 18...who finally lost a seven year battle to breast cancer. A funeral with 10,000 paper cranes and friends who talked about meeting her in Paris and a younger sister who adored her passionately and female friends who all came bedecked in pink and a two grades of kids who lined the aisle of the church, wearing pink ribbons to honor the amazing mother of their friend.

Peg will forever be my reminder NOT to put off lunch with a friend. I knew better. I just didn't do better. Breast cancer runs in my family. Peg...and her illness...and her dignity...and her privacy...scared me. Don't put off lunch with a friend.

Or Rick, the 55 year-old father of classmates of my kids, who lost a battle with pancreatic cancer but outlived his death sentence by 18 months. A man I've known for over 10 years. He was the most faith-based person I ever met and in him, it didn't offend me. His belief radiated. And what amazed me is that he COULD believe. One of his sons was molested. It was well known at the grade school...the kids all got counseled about it. It was discussed openly at school. The molester was Rick's best-friend, who he met at church. Yet he believed. And then he learned he had one of the most virulent cancers around...and lived way beyond the 4 measly months they gave him. He lived because he knew his kids weren't ready for him to leave. A few months after he was diagnosed, I called and we talked. And he told me he knew that this disease would be his end but that he wasn't leaving soon. He was so right. And I so admired him and the way he faced his challenges. And for a long time his sons were pretty messed up but I think he stayed long enough to help them see a bigger picture. That bad things in life are just things...they aren't YOU. Those kids eulogized him...a 16 year old girl and twin 14 year old boys. They were eloquent and lovely. Rick (and Pat, his wife) should be so very proud.

So last night, I'm watching my favorite TV ever...So You Think You Can Dance. And there was this amazing piece choreographed about breast cancer. And all of a sudden I was weeping. My girls were a little shocked, but it sort of brought out exactly why all this death has been taking up a lot of space in my brain.

Here it is.

Watch it.

Really.

For Peg...

how angry am i allowed to be?

We are the parents of two teenage girls--14 and 15 1/2. They are both learning to drive. They do not drive alone.


Tonight the girls and I went to dinner and a movie. Eldest wanted freeway driving hours so we took the "training car" (a/k/a my old car). The last person to drive it was Car-man, while his was being repaired.


There was a crumpled beer can, Car-man's brand, under the driver's seat.


Let's just say that "pissed" is a word that applies.


I entered the house, handed it to him in front of the girls, and asked, in a very chilly voice, "Just how the hell are you going to explain that to our two teenager drivers?" He looked at me and quietly said, "I don't know."


Damn tooting. There IS no explanation.


I am pissed off. Big time.

it's one of those days

Ever have those days when an argument with your child ruins your entire day? When their life and their worries consume you?

It makes me sad.

And I can't concentrate.

And there is SO MUCH I need to get done.

But my mind keeps going back to worry about her. And this funk she is caught up in. And wondering why I had to let her goad me into an argument.

And then the other one is stomping around the house because she's having a bad hair day. And I'm thinking, well, at least you're not thinking about hurting yourself (because that's how bad it is with the other one). So I'm having trouble digging up sympathy for bad hair (even though I know that a 14-year-old girl having bad hair is one of the worst things that can possibly happen....it's way worse than, say, a global depression).

Ugh.

horror

While looking over one of my daughter's Facebook accounts, I saw the following status today:

"Bobby is its ok fellow republicans, he will get shot."

I want to cry.

I want to rail against this boy with my fists.

I want to make him watch the video of Martin Luther King Jr. being shot over and over again until he cries pools of tears.

I want my daughter to never speak to this boy again as long as she lives.

i didn't know the word cruel applied

A statement made by my mother this morning:

"Well, not that you've asked about her but I thought you should know, they found a large lump in Grammy's breast."

Would you like one lump of guilt or two with your bitter cup of sad news?

It's true. I hadn't asked. I was dealing with a kid in a very tenuous mental state most of the weekend (Eldest is not doing well. She's not bouncing back.) I should have remembered to ask about Gram.

But Mom had to drop the news that way?

Would you like a piece of crap with your dry biscuit?

Gram will be 99 in November. She's in advanced stages of Alzheimer's. She's blind, incontinent and hasn't walked in four years. The person she was has been gone for years. There are worse things than a lump in your breast. If she can die painlessly, I'm ready to accept this as the time.

But knowing that I was on the edge with Eldest, Mom thought this a fit way to tell me this news? Welcome to cruelty tea with my mother.

uhg

This weekend is going to be pure hell for the reasons in my last post.

Boyfrondo was here last night. He's staying with Eldest because he doesn't want to hurt her or for her to be sad.

Uhg.

I'm apparently going to spend the weekend wondering just when her heart will seep between her ribs.